The Sahkar-Tet Dynasty

As I stand upon the command dais of my flagship, gazing out at the unfamiliar stars of this new age, my mind drifts back to the glory days of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty. How far we have fallen, and yet, how much potential still lies dormant within our diminished ranks.

In the time before biotransference, when we were still beings of flesh and blood, the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty stood as a colossus among the Necrontyr. Our military might was unrivaled, our technological prowess second to none. I, Kha'resh Mek, led our people with an iron will and an unquenchable thirst for power and progress.

We controlled over 300,000 worlds at the height of our power, a vast empire that stretched across the galaxy. Our fleets blackened the skies of a thousand systems, our armies marched across worlds unnumbered. The Triarch, for all their vaunted authority, could not hope to challenge us openly. Even their shadowy machinations and attempts at assassination were thwarted time and again by my own cunning and the loyalty of my subjects.

I remember well the day I stood before the Triarch, my achievements and conquests laid bare before them. They offered me a place among their ranks, a seat at the highest table of power in our civilization. But I saw through their ploy. They feared me, feared the strength of the Sahkar-Tet, and sought to bind me with oaths and protocols. I refused, and in doing so, set us on a path that would shape the fate of our entire species.

The biotransference came, that cursed miracle that stripped us of our mortality and our souls. I led my people into those infernal machines, promising them eternity and power beyond measure. And in a way, I delivered on that promise. The Sahkar-Tet emerged from the transformation stronger than ever, our bodies now living metal, our minds freed from the constraints of flesh.

But the Silent King and his lackeys had played their hand well. The command protocols bound us all, even me, to their will. They sought to leash my ambition, to turn the mighty Sahkar-Tet into mere attack dogs like the Maynarkh for their grand schemes. We were ordered to serve as the vanguard in the War in Heaven, to be the first to face the fury of the Old Ones and their created races.

Yet even in this role, we excelled. I threw myself into the task of refining our forces, of pushing the boundaries of what our new necrodermis bodies could achieve. Our Immortals were modified extensively, their combat protocols honed to perfection. They could match the Aeldari blade for blade, their reflexes and strength augmented far beyond the standard Necron warrior.

Our Lychguard became the terror of even the Triarch's own elite Praetorians. I personally oversaw their training, instilling in them a fanatical loyalty to the Sahkar-Tet and a combat prowess that was unmatched. They became my personal guard and the spear tip of our assaults, their warscythes reaping a terrible toll among our enemies.

But it was in the realm of heavy firepower that we truly distinguished ourselves. I directed our finest crypteks to modify our void ships, enhancing their bombardment capabilities to unprecedented levels. A single Sahkar-Tet cruiser could lay waste to an entire continent, our doomsday arks capable of cracking planetary defenses with ease.

And then there were the Destroyers. Oh, how the other dynasties feared and reviled them, these warriors who had given themselves over entirely to the desire for annihilation. But I saw their potential. I cultivated their ranks, encouraging the transformation, until the Sahkar-Tet boasted the largest force of Destroyers and Destroyer Lords in the entire Necron species.

The War in Heaven raged on, and we were always at its forefront. We faced horrors that would have broken lesser beings, fought battles that reshaped the very fabric of reality. I led my forces personally, my own combat skills honed to a razor's edge. It was during this time that I earned the title of Godslayer when I felled the Nightbringer, though the full tale of that conquest is a story for another time.

Our losses were staggering. World after world fell, our numbers dwindling despite our immortal bodies. By the war's end, our vast empire had been reduced to a mere 55 worlds. But even in our diminished state, we remained a force to be reckoned with.

It was during the final days of that cataclysmic conflict that I first encountered Trazyn. I caught him red-handed, attempting to make off with some artifact from our vaults. Instead of atomizing him on the spot, something about his audacity amused me, and I engaged him in conversation.

"Well, well," I remember saying, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "The infamous Trazyn the Infinite, reduced to petty thievery in my domain."

Trazyn, ever the showman, offered an elaborate bow. "My dear Phaeron Kha'resh, I prefer to think of it as 'proactive archiving.' After all, who knows what priceless relics might be lost in this dreadful war?"

Despite myself, I found his wit refreshing. In Trazyn, I discovered a kindred spirit of sorts. He shared my fascination with history and technology, though his interests were more... curatorial in nature. We struck up an odd friendship, a relationship built on mutual respect and the understanding that he would continue to attempt to steal from me, and I would continue to thwart him.

Over the millennia that followed, as we slumbered in our tomb worlds, Trazyn's sporadic visits became something of a welcome diversion. He would infiltrate our stasis chambers, always managing to bypass our security measures in new and creative ways.

I recall one particular instance, shortly before we entered the Great Sleep, when I awoke to find Trazyn examining the Obliterator's Scepter, a weapon of my own design capable of erasing matter from existence.

"I must say, Kha'resh," he mused, turning the scepter over in his hands, "your work never ceases to amaze me. This would make a fine addition to my collection."

I snatched the weapon from his grasp. "And it will remain a fine addition to my arsenal, old friend. Though I'm curious - how did you bypass the quantum lock this time?"

Trazyn's eyes gleamed with mischief. "A master never reveals his secrets. But perhaps we could discuss it over a game of regicide? I've recently acquired a set once used by the Old Ones themselves."

And so our meetings would go, a dangerous dance of wits and veiled threats, underpinned by a genuine appreciation for each other's intellect. Trazyn brought news from across the galaxy, tales of other dynasties and the ever-changing face of the cosmos. In return, I allowed him to "borrow" the occasional artifact, always secure in the knowledge that I could reclaim it if truly necessary.

-----------------------------

Present Day

Kha'resh turned his attention to the vast expanse of stars visible from the command dais. Malakar, as always, stood precisely three steps behind his master, his vigilant gaze scanning for any potential threats.

"Malakar," Kha'resh spoke, his tone softer than when addressing the Overlords, "what do you make of our awakening? This new galaxy that awaits us?"

The Nemesor stepped forward, his movements fluid yet precise. "My lord, the stars may have shifted, but my duty remains unchanged. Whatever challenges this new era brings, I shall face them at your side."

Kha'resh turned, his piercing gaze meeting Malakar's unwavering stare. For a moment, the Phaeron's mind drifted back to the tumultuous days when he had challenged the Triarchy and the Silent King's decisions. Malakar had stood with him then, choosing to align himself with Kha'resh's vision despite the risks.

"Your loyalty has never wavered, old friend," Kha'resh mused. "From the day you chose to stand with me against the Triarchy, through the horrors of the War in Heaven, to this very moment."

Malakar's posture straightened, pride evident in his bearing. "My lord honors me with his words. I merely fulfill my duty, as I have since I swore my allegiance to you."

Kha'resh's hand moved to rest on the hilt of his weapon, a gesture that would have put any other being on high alert. But Malakar remained motionless, his trust absolute.

"I remember the assassins you've thwarted, the energy beams you've intercepted," Kha'resh continued. "Even the C'tan themselves could not break your resolve. Truly, you have earned your title, Malakar the Immovable."

A comfortable silence fell between them, millennia of shared experiences and mutual respect hanging in the air. Then, Kha'resh's tone sharpened, returning to the matter at hand.

"This Imperium of Man," he began, "they will prove a formidable foe. Not for their technology, which seems laughably primitive, but for their tenacity and the vastness of their empire. We must be prepared for a protracted conflict."

Malakar nodded, his voice filled with determination. "Then we shall face this protracted conflict together, my lord. As we have faced every challenge since the dawn of our dynasty. Your vision shall guide us, and my blade shall clear the path before you."

A Few Hours later...

As Kha'resh and Malakar strode through the ruins of the conquered world, a flicker of movement caught the Phaeron's eye. With lightning-fast reflexes, Kha'resh's hand shot up, grasping a metallic wrist mere inches from his ornate headdress.

"Nice to see you too, Trazyn," Kha'resh rumbled, a hint of amusement in his usually stern voice. "Glad to see your thievery skills have not yet rusted."

Materializing fully from his cloaked state, Trazyn the Infinite stood before them, his eyes gleaming with mischief and curiosity. "One can hardly blame me for attempting to acquire such a unique specimen. A headdress made from the flayed necrodermis of the Nightbringer? Truly a centerpiece for any collection."

Malakar, instantly on guard, positioned himself between the two Necron lords, his warscythe humming ominously. "My lord, shall I remove this intruder?"

Kha'resh raised a hand, staying his loyal protector. "At ease, Malakar. Trazyn and I have an... understanding."

Trazyn chuckled, the sound like tinkling crystal. "Indeed we do. I 'borrow' his artifacts, he threatens my existence, we share a laugh about the good old days. It's a delightful arrangement."

"One that tests my patience, old friend," Kha'resh replied, though there was no real menace in his tone. Kha'resh's eyes narrowed. "Your timing is impeccable as always, Trazyn. I don't recall sending a awakening notice to Solemnace."

Trazyn waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, news travels fast when one knows where to listen. Your little conquest of the nearby system and Tomb worlds was hardly a subtle affair. I simply had to come and see for myself... and perhaps acquire a few souvenirs."

"You've been awake far longer than us, Trazyn. What can you tell me of this 'Imperium of Man' that now dominates the galaxy?"

Trazyn's eyes gleamed with interest. "Oh, now that is a fascinating tale. Humans, if you can believe it! Those primitive monkeys we once ignored have built quite the empire. Led by a being they call the Emperor - a psyker of immense power. They're currently embarking on something called the 'Great Crusade', reuniting lost human worlds and purging xenos life wherever they find it."

Kha'resh processed this information, his tactical mind already formulating strategies. "And their military capabilities?"

"Formidable, by the standards of this age," Trazyn replied. "Nothing compared to the War in Heaven, of course, but not to be underestimated. Their 'Space Marines' are particularly noteworthy. Oh, and they have these delightful creations called 'Primarchs' - genetically engineered demigods, for lack of a better term."

Kha'resh's eyes flared with interest. "Intriguing. It seems this new galaxy will provide some entertainment after all."

Trazyn nodded enthusiastically. "Indeed! And if you're planning to engage them, might I humbly request the opportunity to... observe? For historical documentation, of course."

Kha'resh let out a sound that might have been a chuckle. "Your 'observations' usually end with half a battlefield disappearing into your tesseract vaults, Trazyn. But very well. You may observe - from a distance. And in return, you will share any relevant information about this Imperium and the current state of the galaxy."

Trazyn bowed with a flourish. "A most generous offer! I accept, of course. This promises to be a most fascinating addition to my historical archives."

With a flourish, Trazyn produced a small, ornate device. "A gift, to celebrate your reawakening. Do mind the chronomantic fields; they're a bit unstable."

Before Kha'resh could respond, Trazyn vanished in a flash of green light, his laughter echoing in the ruins.

Malakar stepped forward, scanning for any trace of the infamous collector. "My lord, was it wise to let him leave? He could alert others to our presence."

Kha'resh examined the device left behind, a small smile playing on his metallic features. "Trazyn will do as Trazyn does. But his warning about this Imperium is noteworthy. Perhaps we should accelerate our plans."

-----------------------

The vast expanse of the Halo Stars stretched before Overlord Amenhotep's fleet, a glittering tapestry of possibilities and dangers. The Sahkar-Tet Dynasty's expedition into these uncharted regions had been proceeding smoothly, their ancient Necron technology easily overwhelming any resistance they encountered. Amenhotep stood on the command deck of his flagship, the Eternal Dominion, his metallic form gleaming in the dim light of the holographic displays.

"My lord," one of the Necron officers reported, "we are approaching the edge of the Scaris Sector. Long-range scans indicate unusual activity ahead."

Amenhotep's eyes flared with interest. "Unusual how?"

Before the officer could respond, alarms blared across the ship. The holographic displays flickered, showing a massive object materializing seemingly out of nowhere.

"Ambush!" Amenhotep roared, his ancient warrior instincts kicking in. "Battle stations!"

The object resolved itself into a moon-sized base, its surface bristling with weaponry. Energy beams lanced out, striking the lead ships of Amenhotep's fleet.

"Shields holding," the officer reported. "But the enemy's firepower is... considerable."

Amenhotep's metallic features twisted into what passed for a grin among the Necrons. "Is that so? Then let us show them what true power looks like. Target that base with the Particle Whip. Full charge."

The Eternal Dominion's primary weapon, a marvel of Necron engineering capable of sundering planets, powered up. A blinding beam of energy erupted from the ship, striking the moon base dead center. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Then, with agonizing slowness, cracks began to spread across the base's surface.

"Again," Amenhotep commanded, his voice cold and merciless.

The Particle Whip fired once more, and this time, the moon base couldn't withstand the assault. It shattered like glass, fragments spinning off into the void.

Amenhotep allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before turning to his crew. "Status report."

"My lord, we've destroyed their primary installation, but... more ships are appearing. They seem to be using some form of advanced cloaking technology."

Indeed, the space around them was suddenly filled with alien vessels, sleek and organic in design. They swarmed around the Necron fleet, their weapons blazing.

"Rangdan," Amenhotep growled, recognizing the xenos race from ancient data banks. "And... Slaugth? Interesting. Two for the price of one."

The battle that followed was brief but intense. The Rangdan and Slaugth, for all their advanced technology, found themselves hopelessly outmatched by the Necron fleet. Their weapons, devastating against most foes, barely scratched the living metal of the Necron ships.

Amenhotep watched with cold detachment as his forces systematically obliterated the enemy fleet. Rangdan ships exploded in silent bursts of fire, while Slaugth vessels were cut apart by gauss weapons, their worm-like occupants spilling into the void.

"My lord," the officer reported, "the enemy is concentrating their fire on the Eternal Dominion. Our shields are weakening."

Amenhotep's eyes flared with anger. "Impudent vermin. They think to defeat us by removing the head? Let them come. Prepare for boarders."

As if on cue, the ship shuddered as multiple impacts struck its hull. The shields flickered and died, allowing the enemy to teleport aboard.

Alarms blared throughout the ship as Rangdan and Slaugth forces materialized in the corridors. The ship's internal defenses activated, filling the air with gauss fire and energy fields. Necron warriors, dormant until now, rose from their stations, their weapons powering up.

Amenhotep strode from the command deck, his warscythe humming with energy. "Show me to our... guests," he commanded.

The scene that greeted him in the main corridor was one of chaos and carnage. Rangdan soldiers, their bodies a disturbing mix of organic and mechanical parts, fought with desperate ferocity. Their mimetic abilities allowed them to blend with their surroundings, appearing and disappearing like ghosts.

Alongside them, Slaugth worm-colonies surged forward, their composite bodies flowing around obstacles and Necron fire alike. Where they touched Necron warriors, they attempted to melt through the living metal, secreting corrosive enzymes.

But for all their alien might and adaptability, the boarders found themselves in a hopeless situation. The Necron warriors, emotionless and tireless, cut them down with mechanical precision. Gauss flayers reduced Rangdan to atoms, while Tesla weapons chained through the Slaugth, frying their composite forms.

Amenhotep waded into the fray, his warscythe a blur of motion. Where it struck, Rangdan and Slaugth alike fell, their bodies cleaved in twain or simply ceasing to exist as they were shunted into pocket dimensions.

A particularly large Slaugth worm-colony reared up before Amenhotep, its mass easily dwarfing the Necron Overlord. Pseudopods lashed out, secreting a highly corrosive substance that would have melted through any lesser material.

Amenhotep didn't even bother to dodge. The corrosive splashed against his necrodermis, sizzling ineffectually. "Is that all?" he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

The warscythe flashed once, twice, and the massive Slaugth fell apart, its component worms writhing in their death throes.

Amenhotep found himself almost disappointed by the ease of it all. These races, supposedly among the most advanced and dangerous in the galaxy, were little more than annoyances to the might of the Necrons.

"Lesser xenos races and their foolishness," he muttered, casually bisecting another Rangdan warrior.

As the last of the boarders fell, Amenhotep turned to one of his Lychguard. "Bring me a survivor from each race. I wish to... question them."

The Lychguard bowed and moved off to carry out the order. Meanwhile, Amenhotep returned to the command deck, where reports were coming in from across the fleet.

"The enemy fleet has been completely destroyed, my lord," the officer reported. "We sustained minimal damage. Repair protocols are already underway."

Amenhotep nodded, satisfied. "And what of the information we gathered from this encounter?"

"Preliminary analysis suggests that these Rangdan and Slaugth forces were part of a larger collective, my lord. Their base in this region was significant, but not their primary stronghold."

"Interesting," Amenhotep mused. "It seems we've stumbled upon something that may interest the Phaeron. Prepare a full report for transmission to Tjet'amun."

As the officer carried out his orders, the Lychguard returned, dragging two prisoners - a Rangdan warrior, its mimetic systems disabled, and a smaller Slaugth worm-colony, contained within a stasis field.

Amenhotep approached the prisoners, his impassive metal face betraying no emotion. "Now then," he said, "let's see what secrets you hold."

With a thought, he activated the complex information extraction protocols built into his systems. Tendrils of energy reached out, interfacing directly with the prisoners' minds. The Rangdan writhed in silent agony, while the Slaugth's composite form churned in distress.

Images and data flooded Amenhotep's consciousness. He saw vast fleets of Rangdan ships, worlds teeming with Slaugth worm-colonies. He saw their battles against other races, their inexorable expansion across the stars. And most importantly, he saw the locations of their core worlds, the hearts of their respective empires.

As the extraction ended, the prisoners slumped, their minds burned out by the process. Amenhotep's eyes flared with excitement as he processed the wealth of information he'd obtained.

"Keep their Corpses in Stasis," he ordered the Lychguard, gesturing to the empty husks of the prisoners. "And set a course for Tjet'amun. The Phaeron will want to hear of this personally."

As the Eternal Dominion and its fleet entered the Dolmen Gates, returning to Sahkar-Tet space, Amenhotep allowed himself a moment of anticipation. The Rangdan and Slaugth were powerful, yes, but against the full might of an awakened Necron dynasty? They would fall, as all others had before them.

The journey back to Tjet'amun was swift, the Dolmen Gates allowing near-instantaneous travel across vast distances. As they emerged into Sahkar-Tet space, Amenhotep was struck by the transformation that had occurred in his absence.

Where once there had been empty void, now a vast network of Tomb Worlds hung in complex formations. At the center of it all was Tjet'amun, the Crown World of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty, a gleaming jewel of Necron engineering.

As the Eternal Dominion approached, Amenhotep marveled at the defensive layout. Fortress Worlds formed the outer perimeter, their weapon systems primed and ready. Within this shell were the Core Worlds, centers of industry and power. Fringe Worlds acted as early warning systems and first lines of defense, while Factory Worlds pulsed with energy, ready to churn out legions of warriors and war machines at a moment's notice.

The entire system was a masterpiece of strategic planning, with each world positioned for maximum defensive coverage without impeding the others. Even the immense firepower of their World Engines could be brought to bear without risking damage to their own forces.

"Magnificent," Amenhotep murmured. "The Phaeron has outdone himself."

As they docked at one of Tjet'amun's orbital stations, Amenhotep received a summons from Kha'resh Mek himself. The Overlord made his way to the Phaeron's personal chambers, his mind racing with the implications of what he'd discovered.

He found Kha'resh standing before a massive viewscreen, watching as a dead world in a nearby system was subjected to unimaginable energies. The Phaeron was practicing his C'tan powers, Amenhotep realized with a mix of awe and fear.

"My glorious Phaeron," Amenhotep said, bowing low. "I bring news from the expedition."

Kha'resh turned, his eyes blazing with eldritch energy. "Speak, Amenhotep. What have you found in the void?"

Amenhotep recounted the encounter with the Rangdan and Slaugth, detailing the battle and the information he'd extracted from the prisoners. As he spoke, he could see Kha'resh's interest growing.

"Rangdan and Slaugth," the Phaeron mused. "Two races that could pose a genuine threat to our plans. You've done well, Amenhotep."

"Thank you, my lord," Amenhotep replied, swelling with pride. "What are your orders?"

Kha'resh was silent for a moment, his ancient mind calculating countless possibilities. "We will crush them," he said finally. "These xenos races have grown too powerful, too confident in their dominion over the stars. It's time they were reminded of their place."

The Phaeron turned back to the viewscreen, where the dead world was now breaking apart under the strain of his powers. "Prepare the fleet, Amenhotep. We go to war."

As Amenhotep bowed and turned to leave, Kha'resh spoke again. "Oh, and Amenhotep? Send a message to our old friend Trazyn. I'm sure he'd be interested in... preserving some specimens of these races before we wipe them out."

Amenhotep nodded, a cold smile playing across his metallic features as he left the chambers.

The dim green glow of holographic displays cast eerie shadows across the metallic features of Kha'resh Mek, Phaeron of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty. His eyes, burning with an inner fire that had not dimmed in millions of years, scanned the information before him with inhuman speed and precision. The data gathered by Overlord Amenhotep scrolled past, interspersed with the meticulous analysis provided by Nephthys, the Silent.

As he processed the information, Kha'resh's mind, vast and ancient, began to form connections and theories. "The Rangdan," he mused aloud, his voice a low, metallic rumble that seemed to resonate through the very walls of his private chambers. "Not merely allies of the Slaugth, but perhaps... variants of the same species?"

He leaned forward, manipulating the holographic display with a casual gesture. Images of writhing worm-like creatures filled the air, alongside diagrams of complex neural structures.

"Fascinating," Kha'resh murmured. "Gestalt entities, each individual a colony of smaller organisms. The Rangdan, the Slaugth, the Osseivores, the Cerabvores... all cut from the same cloth, yet specialized for different roles."

He paused, considering the implications. "The 'taint' and 'outbreak' mentioned in the reports... it's not a disease in the traditional sense. It's an infestation." His eyes flared brighter as he realized the true nature of the threat. "They burrow into their victims, feeding, growing, waiting for the right moment to emerge en masse."

Kha'resh's hand clenched into a fist, the living metal of his body responding to his surge of emotion. These creatures were a plague upon the galaxy, a threat not just to his plans for conquest, but to the very fabric of realspace itself.

A notification chimed softly, drawing his attention to another section of the report. Nephthys had completed her analysis of the specimens Amenhotep had brought back. Kha'resh allowed himself a moment of pride in his Overlord's efficiency. Nephthys, true to her nature, had conducted her examination with ruthless thoroughness, leaving no detail unexplored.

"Excellent work, Nephthys," Kha'resh said, knowing that even though she wasn't present, his words would be recorded and relayed to her. In the privacy of his chambers, he could afford such small gestures of approval. Before his court, he maintained a more aloof demeanor, but Kha'resh knew the value of recognizing exceptional service.

The door to his chambers slid open with a soft hiss, admitting Malakar, his ever-loyal Nemesor. The warrior strode in, his movements fluid yet precise, and snapped to attention before his Phaeron.

"My Phaeron," Malakar intoned, his voice resonating with respect and devotion. "Your flagship, 'Phaeron's Will', stands ready. The fleet is assembling as we speak. In mere minutes, your personal armada will be prepared for departure. The Overlords are already mustering their forces."

Kha'resh nodded, satisfaction evident in the set of his shoulders. He rose from his seat, his imposing figure seeming to fill the room. "Excellent, Malakar" 

With a thought, Kha'resh dismissed the holographic displays, plunging the room into darkness save for the glow of their eyes. He strode towards the door, Malakar falling into step precisely three paces behind him, as was proper.

As they exited the chambers, a pair of Lychguard fell in behind them, their warscythes held at the ready. Kha'resh paid them no mind; their presence was a constant, a living reminder of his status and the ever-present threats to his person.

The corridors of Tjet'amun, the Crown World of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty, were a marvel of Necron engineering. Smooth, dark metal walls pulsed with veins of energy, while intricate glyphs and circuit-like patterns adorned every surface. As Kha'resh walked, the patterns seemed to shift and change, responding to his presence.

Necron warriors they passed snapped to attention, their blank faces betraying no emotion but their posture radiating absolute devotion. Crypteks bowed low, their ornate staves touching the floor in gestures of deep respect. Even the rare Canoptek constructs they encountered seemed to pause in their eternal labors, acknowledging the passage of their master.

Kha'resh moved through it all with the easy confidence of absolute authority. Each step was measured, purposeful, his bearing that of one who knew without question that he was the apex predator in a galaxy full of lesser beings.

As they neared the hangar where his shuttle awaited, Kha'resh's mind turned to the coming conflict. The Rangdan and Slaugth posed a significant threat, yes, but they were also an opportunity. A chance to test the mettle of his forces, to hone the edge of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty's military might.

More than that, they were a stepping stone. By crushing these xenos races, Kha'resh would send a message to the galaxy at large. The Necrons were awakening, and the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty was ready to reclaim its rightful place as masters of the stars.

The hangar doors slid open, revealing a cavernous space filled with sleek Necron vessels. At the center stood Kha'resh's personal shuttle, a work of art in living metal. As he approached, the vessel seemed to come alive, its surface rippling in anticipation of its master's arrival.

Kha'resh paused at the foot of the boarding ramp, turning to address Malakar. "You have served me well, old friend. In the battles to come, I shall rely on your sword arm and your counsel."

Malakar bowed deeply, his voice thick with emotion. "My life is yours, my Phaeron. As it has been since the day you raised me from obscurity to stand at your side."

A ghost of a smile played across Kha'resh's features. "Then let us write a new chapter in the history of our dynasty. The galaxy awaits."

With that, Kha'resh ascended the ramp, Malakar and the Lychguard close behind. The shuttle's systems hummed to life, responding to their master's presence. In moments, they were airborne, streaking through Tjet'amun's atmosphere towards the void where 'Phaeron's Will' awaited.

As they approached the massive vessel, Kha'resh allowed himself a moment of pride. The 'Phaeron's Will' was a Cairn-class Tombship, 65 kilometers of concentrated Necron might. Its sleek, angular form bristled with weapons capable of reducing planets to ash. More than a mere warship, it was a mobile fortress, a declaration of Kha'resh's power and authority.

The shuttle docked smoothly, and Kha'resh made his way to the bridge. As he entered, the bustle of activity ceased, every Necron present turning to salute their Phaeron. Kha'resh acknowledged them with a nod, striding to the command throne at the center of the bridge.

As he sat, holographic displays sprang to life around him, showing the assembling fleet. Kha'resh's eyes widened slightly at the sight. Thirty battlefleets, each a force capable of subjugating entire sectors, gathered in perfect formation. And there, dwarfing even the mighty Tombships, one of his five World Engines took its place among the armada.

The displays flickered, and the holographic forms of his five Overlords appeared before him. Each saluted, their faces set in expressions of grim determination if there was a face perhaps those were the expressions but Kha'resh can already feel their emotions despite the lack there of due to the Necrodermis bodies.

"Overlord Amenhotep, commanding the Fist of Anuket," the first reported, his voice resonating with barely contained aggression.

"Overlord Nephthys, leading the Shadow of Khepri," the second intoned, her quiet voice belying the deadly efficiency of her forces.

"Overlord Imhotep, at the helm of the Architect's Vengeance," the third declared, his tone filled with cold calculation.

"Overlord Sekhet, commanding the Void Weaver's Snare," the fourth announced, his words clipped and precise.

"Overlord Nefertari, leading the Eternal Resurgence," the final Overlord stated, her voice rich with ambition and confidence.

Kha'resh regarded them each in turn they reported the names of the Battlefleet they commanded, his ancient eyes seeming to peer into the very core of their being. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of millennia, the authority of one who had faced the gods themselves and emerged victorious.

"My Overlords," he began, his words echoing across the comm channels to every ship in the fleet. "The time has come for the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty to remind the galaxy of our might. Before us lie the Rangdan and the Slaugth, xenos races that dare to think themselves our equals."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "They are mistaken. We are the Necrontyr, the lords of the cosmos. We faced the Old Ones at the height of their power and brought them low. We shattered the C'tan and bound them to our will. What are these worm-creatures compared to such foes?"

Kha'resh rose from his throne, his figure seeming to grow larger, more imposing. "This is the first large-scale battle of our reawakened dynasty. I will not join the fray directly; instead, I shall watch. Show me that your skills have not dulled with the great sleep. Prove to me, to our dynasty, to the very stars themselves, why you stand as my chosen Overlords."

His eyes blazed brighter, his voice taking on a tone that sent shivers through even the emotionless Necron warriors. "The Rangdan and Slaugth are too aggressive, too dangerous to serve as subjects for our future empire. Their very nature makes them a threat to the races we might otherwise subjugate. Therefore, I declare them unworthy of existence. Extinguish their futile species, raze their worlds, and from the ashes, we shall build the foundation of our new dominion."

The Overlords straightened, their eyes burning with reflected fervor. "YES, MY PHAERON!" they chorused, their voices united in purpose and devotion.

Kha'resh nodded, satisfaction evident in every line of his posture. "Go forth, my Overlords. Bring death to our enemies and glory to the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty."

With a gesture, he dismissed their holograms. The bridge erupted into activity as final preparations were made. Kha'resh returned to his throne, watching as the massive Dolmen Gates activated, tearing holes in the fabric of reality.

As the fleet began to move towards the gates, Kha'resh found his mind wandering to the future. The Rangdan and Slaugth were but the first step. Beyond them lay other xenos races, the upstart Imperium of Man, and countless potential subjects for his growing empire.

He had learned much since the War in Heaven, since the days when he had been a mere servant to the C'tan. Conquest was not merely about destruction; it was about cultivation, about building something greater from the ruins of the old.

Kha'resh thought of the xenos races already under his rule, tucked away on carefully monitored worlds within Sahkar-Tet space. Unlike the more rabid dynasties like the Maynarkh, he saw the value in preserving certain species. They were test subjects, sources of innovation, and potential soldiers in his ever-growing armies.

The key, Kha'resh mused, was in the balance. Ruled with an iron fist, yes, but also given just enough freedom to flourish. Their cultures were strictly controlled, their religions slowly reshaped to revere the Necrons as gods. It was a long game, one that would take millennia to fully realize, but Kha'resh was nothing if not patient.

He imagined a future where countless races served the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty willingly, seeing the Necrons not as conquerors but as saviors, as the only force capable of protecting them from the horrors of the galaxy. It was a future worth striving for, a goal that gave purpose to his eternal existence.

As the fleet entered the Dolmen Gates, reality twisting around them, Kha'resh allowed himself a small smile. The Rangdan and Slaugth awaited.

Overlord Amenhotep - The Fist of Anuket

As the Dolmen Gate's energies swirled around his flagship, Amenhotep felt a surge of anticipation course through his necrodermis frame. The Fist of Anuket, his personal battlefleet, was primed for war, and he could almost taste the coming violence.

"Finally," he growled, his metallic voice resonating with barely contained aggression. "A true test of our might."

Amenhotep had always been the most martial of Kha'resh's Overlords, his strategies favoring overwhelming force and decisive strikes. The long sleep had done nothing to dull his appetite for battle. If anything, it had only made him more eager to prove his worth.

He recalled the skirmish with the Rangdan and Slaugth forces, how easily they had fallen before the might of even a small Necron fleet. A part of him hoped these xenos would put up more of a fight. After all, where was the glory in crushing insects?

"My lord," one of his Lychguard approached, bowing low. "The fleet stands ready. We await only your command."

Amenhotep nodded, his eyes blazing with anticipation. "Good. Let the lesser races tremble. We shall fall upon them like the wrath of the old gods themselves."

As he issued orders to his commanders, Amenhotep's mind drifted to the other Overlords. Nephthys with her schemes, Imhotep with his endless calculations, Sekhet with his webs of strategy, and Nefertari with her insatiable ambition. They all had their uses, he supposed, but in the end, it was strength of arms that would win the day.

"We are the tip of the spear," he declared to his warriors. "The Phaeron watches. Let us show him and all the galaxy why the Fist of Anuket is feared across the stars!"

A chorus of mechanical roars answered him, the Necron equivalent of a battle cry. Amenhotep allowed himself a cold smile. Yes, this would be a glorious slaughter indeed.

Overlord Nephthys - The Shadow of Khepri

In the hushed command center of her flagship, Nephthys stood motionless, her sensors drinking in every scrap of data from the surrounding fleet. The Shadow of Khepri was aptly named; her forces specialized in stealth, infiltration, and surgical strikes.

Unlike Amenhotep's brute force approach, Nephthys preferred to win battles before they even began. Information was her weapon, secrets her ammunition.

"Status report," she whispered, her voice barely audible yet carrying clearly to her subordinates.

"All systems optimal, my lady," came the response. "Our cloaking devices are fully operational. The enemy remains unaware of our approach."

Nephthys nodded, satisfaction evident in the subtle glow of her eyes. She had spent the journey through the Dolmen Gate refining her plans, analyzing every scrap of intelligence on the Rangdan and Slaugth.

These xenos were clever, she had to admit. Their mimetic abilities and hive-mind structure made them formidable foes. But they had never faced anything like the Shadow of Khepri.

"Deploy the Canoptek Spyders," she ordered. "I want eyes on every major population center before we strike."

As her commands were carried out, Nephthys allowed her mind to wander to her fellow Overlords. Amenhotep would no doubt charge in headlong, as subtle as a rampaging Novokh Destroyer. Imhotep would be lost in his calculations, seeking the perfect moment to strike. Sekhet would weave his strategies, while Nefertari... ah, Nefertari would be plotting how to turn this campaign to her personal advantage.

Nephthys felt a flicker of amusement. Let them play their games. In the end, victory would go to the one with the best intelligence, the clearest picture of the battlefield. And in that arena, none could match the Shadow of Khepri.

"My lady," one of her crypteks approached. "We've detected an anomaly in the enemy's communication patterns."

Nephthys turned, her interest piqued. "Show me."

As she immersed herself in the data, a plan began to form. Yes, this could work. A smile played across her metallic features. The Rangdan and Slaugth thought themselves masters of deception and infiltration. It was time to show them what true masters of shadow could do.

Overlord Imhotep - The Architect's Vengeance

The bridge of Imhotep's flagship was a hive of activity, but not of the usual military sort. Holographic displays showed complex mathematical formulae, strategic simulations ran in real-time, and Canoptek constructs scurried about, making minute adjustments to the ship's systems.

In the center of it all stood Imhotep, the self-styled Architect of Destruction. His eyes flicked from display to display, his vast intellect processing gigabytes of data per second.

"Fascinating," he murmured, manipulating a 3D model of a Rangdan neural structure. "Their hive-mind presents both a weakness and a strength. If we can isolate a node, the resulting feedback loop could..."

He trailed off, lost in calculations. One of his attendants cleared its throat, a unnecessary gesture for a being without lungs, but one that effectively drew Imhotep's attention.

"My lord, we approach the target system. The fleet awaits your strategic input."

Imhotep nodded absently, his mind already racing ahead. "Yes, yes. Implement Battle Plan Theta-7. But be prepared to shift to Epsilon-3 if the variables change."

As his orders were relayed, Imhotep allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The other Overlords might mock his methodical approach, his endless calculations and simulations. Amenhotep, in particular, was fond of calling him a "number-crunching construct" who'd forgotten how to fight.

But Imhotep knew better. In war, as in architecture, every detail mattered. One miscalculation, one flaw in the foundation, and the entire structure could come crashing down.

He thought of his fellow Overlords, each approaching the coming battle in their own way. Amenhotep with his brute force, Nephthys with her shadows, Sekhet with his webs of strategy, and Nefertari with her political maneuvering.

All had their place, Imhotep had to admit. But true victory, lasting victory, came from perfect planning and flawless execution.

"My lord," another attendant approached. "We've detected an anomaly in the enemy's defensive formations."

Imhotep's eyes flared with interest. "Show me."

As he analyzed the new data, a smile spread across his metallic features. Yes, this changed everything. Time to show these xenos - and his fellow Overlords - why he was called the Architect of Destruction.

Overlord Sekhet - The Void Weaver's Snare

Sekhet stood before the grand tactical display, his form unnaturally still even for a Necron. To an outside observer, he might have appeared inactive, perhaps even in stasis. But within his ancient mind, vast webs of strategy were being spun, each thread representing a possible move, countermove, and counter-countermove.

The Void Weaver, they called him. Master of strategy, weaver of tactical webs so complex they bordered on art. Sekhet took pride in these titles, even if he rarely showed it.

"Status of the fleet?" he asked, his voice cool and precise.

"All units in position, my lord," came the response. "The enemy remains unaware of our true numbers and disposition."

Sekhet nodded, satisfied. Deception was key in his approach to warfare. Let the enemy think they knew your strength, your intentions. Then, when the moment was right, spring the trap and watch them flail helplessly in your web.

He thought of his fellow Overlords, each playing their part in this grand strategy. Amenhotep, the blunt instrument, drawing the enemy's attention. Nephthys, the hidden dagger, striking from the shadows. Imhotep, the calculator, predicting and countering the enemy's moves. And Nefertari, the wild card, her ambition making her both useful and dangerous.

Sekhet's strategies accounted for them all, weaving their strengths and weaknesses into a tapestry of war that would leave the Rangdan and Slaugth reeling.

"My lord," one of his tactical officers approached. "We've detected movement in the enemy fleet. They appear to be adopting a defensive posture."

Sekhet's eyes flared with interest. "Interesting. They sense the trap, but they do not yet see its true nature. Excellent. Proceed with Phase Two of the operation."

As his orders were carried out, Sekhet allowed himself a moment of anticipation. The pieces were in motion, the web was set. Now it was time to draw it tight and watch as their enemies struggled futilely against the inevitable.

Let Amenhotep have his glorious charges, let Nephthys play in the shadows, let Imhotep crunch his numbers, and let Nefertari plot her ascension. In the end, it would be Sekhet's strategies that would carry the day.

The Void Weaver's Snare was about to close, and the galaxy would remember why the Necrons were once the undisputed masters of warfare.

Overlord Nefertari - The Eternal Resurgence

Nefertari paced the command deck of her flagship, her movements fluid and purposeful. Unlike her fellow Overlords, who remained stoically still or lost themselves in tactical displays, Nefertari was a being of constant motion and adaptation.

The Eternal Resurgence, her personal battlefleet, was a reflection of her philosophy. Always changing, always evolving, yet maintaining its core strength and purpose.

"Report," she commanded, her voice carrying the authority of one used to being obeyed without question.

"The fleet is in position, my lady," her second-in-command responded. "Our new adaptive shielding is online and functioning at optimal levels."

Nefertari nodded, a smile playing across her metallic features. The adaptive shielding was her latest innovation, a system that could analyze enemy weapons fire and adjust its frequency to provide maximum protection. It was untested in large-scale combat, but that only added to the excitement.

As she issued orders and reviewed tactical data, Nefertari's mind raced with possibilities. This campaign against the Rangdan and Slaugth was more than just a military operation. It was an opportunity, a chance to prove her worth not just to Kha'resh, but to the entire Sahkar-Tet Dynasty.

She thought of her fellow Overlords, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Amenhotep with his brute force approach, useful but predictable. Nephthys and her shadows, effective but limited in scope. Imhotep with his endless calculations, brilliant but inflexible. And Sekhet, the master strategist, dangerous but too fond of overly complex plans.

Nefertari saw herself as the perfect blend of all their strengths, without their weaknesses. Adaptable, innovative, ambitious. She would use this campaign to showcase her abilities, to demonstrate why she should be Kha'resh's right hand in the dynasty's resurgence.

"My lady," one of her crypteks approached. "We've detected unusual energy signatures from one of the Rangdan worlds. It appears they're attempting some sort of large-scale biological transformation."

Nefertari's eyes flared with interest. "Fascinating. Prepare a strike team. I want samples of whatever they're creating."

As her orders were carried out, Nefertari allowed herself to imagine the possibilities. If the Rangdan had indeed created some new biological weapon, think of what the Sahkar-Tet could do with that knowledge. Under her guidance, of course.

Let the other Overlords fight their straightforward battles. Nefertari had her eyes on a grander prize. This campaign would be the first step in her ascension, the beginning of the true Eternal Resurgence.

The galaxy was changing, and Nefertari intended to be at the forefront of that change, guiding the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty to heights of power that even Kha'resh had not dreamed of.

As the fleets of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty emerged from the Dolmen Gates, five Overlords prepared for battle, each in their own unique way. Amenhotep, the Fist of Anuket, readied his forces for a crushing assault. Nephthys, the Shadow of Khepri, set her subtle plans in motion. Imhotep, the Architect's Vengeance, made his final calculations. Sekhet, the Void Weaver, prepared to spring his intricate trap. And Nefertari, leading the Eternal Resurgence, looked beyond the immediate battle to the future of the dynasty.

Together, they represented the full might and cunning of the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty. The Rangdan and Slaugth, for all their alien power and adaptability, had no idea of the doom that was about to befall them.

And watching it all, from his command throne aboard the 'Phaeron's Will', was Kha'resh Mek. The ancient Phaeron observed his Overlords with a mixture of pride and calculation. Each had their strengths, each their uses. And each, in their own way, was a potential threat if not properly managed.

-----------------------

I sit upon my command throne, the weight of eons pressing upon my necrodermis frame. Before me, holographic displays show the progress of my fleet, each ship a point of cold light against the void. But my attention is not on the tactical readouts or the looming battle. Instead, my mind turns inward, contemplating the pieces on this vast, galactic chessboard.

My Overlords. My greatest strengths and, potentially, my most dangerous weaknesses. Each a masterpiece of Necron engineering, each a being of immense power and intellect. And each, in their own way, a reflection of the complex tapestry that is the Sahkar-Tet Dynasty.

Nefertari. Ah, Nefertari. Her ambition burns as brightly as a newborn star, threatening to consume all in its path. I remember when I first elevated her to the rank of Overlord. The fire in her eyes, the hunger for power barely concealed behind her courtly manners. She has served me well, her innovative tactics and adaptive strategies proving invaluable time and again.

But ambition unchecked is a dangerous thing. I've seen it topple empires and shatter dynasties. Nefertari dreams of ascension, of one day perhaps challenging my rule. It's almost endearing, in a way. But she forgets that I've played this game for millions of years. I've faced gods and monsters, and I'm still here.

Perhaps it's time for a lesson in humility. This upstart Imperium of Man might prove useful in that regard. Let Nefertari taste defeat, let her realize that without me, without the full might of the Sahkar-Tet behind her, her dreams of independence are as dust in the solar wind. It will be a delicate balance - I cannot afford to lose her talents, but neither can I allow her ambition to threaten our dynasty.

My eyes flicker to another display, showing the forces of the Fist of Anuket. Amenhotep, my blunt instrument. Where finesse fails, where subtlety is wasted, I send Amenhotep. His tactics are as subtle as a World Engine's main gun, but there are times when that's precisely what's needed. I recall his face before biotransference - always eager for battle, always the first to charge into the fray. Some things, it seems, never change.

In contrast, my gaze falls upon the Shadow of Khepri. Nephthys, ever the enigma. She serves me wholeheartedly, not out of ambition or bloodlust, but because I offer her what she craves most - freedom from the political games that once dominated our society. I remember her in the royal courts of old, always uncomfortable, always seeking the shadows. Now, she is the shadow, my hidden blade, striking where least expected.

Our arrangement is simple - she handles the messy, subtle work of espionage and assassination, and in return, I shield her from the courtly intrigues she so despises. It's a fair trade, I think. And in Nephthys, I have found something rare indeed - a loyal servant who wants nothing more than to be left alone to do her job.

My attention turns to the Architect's Vengeance. Imhotep, my mad genius. Even before biotransference, his ideas were considered radical, even heretical. The army of Destroyer Lords? His brainchild. The living metal regeneration protocols that have saved countless Necron lives? Another of his innovations.

I remember the day he came to me with the plans for the Destroyers. The other Phaerons were horrified, calling it an abomination, a perversion of what it meant to be Necrontyr. But I saw the potential. In Imhotep's mad schemes, I saw the key to victory in the War in Heaven.

So I gave him what he needed most - a stage to play on, resources to fuel his experiments, and protection from those who would see him deactivated for his "heresies". In return, his loyalty to me is absolute. As long as I continue to support his research, Imhotep will follow me into the very heart of a dying star.

Sekhet, my master strategist. The Void Weaver, they call him. I remember him during the War in Heaven, his strategies turning the tide of battle time and again. But even the greatest of minds can falter. Sekhet's weakness is his perfectionism, his need to account for every variable, every possible outcome. Sometimes, in his quest for the perfect plan, he misses opportunities right in front of him.

It amuses me, in a way. To think that a Necron, a being of living metal and cold logic, could short-circuit himself with overthinking. But it's a flaw I've learned to work around. I watch his strategies unfold, and when I see an opportunity he's missed, I point it out. It's become almost a game between us, one that I find strangely enjoyable.

And then there's Malakar, my Nemesor. Not an Overlord, but in many ways more crucial than any of them. I remember clearly the day he was assigned to me by the Triarchy, before the biotransference. He stood before me, rigid with discomfort, barely able to meet my gaze. How things have changed.

Now, Malakar is my right hand, my most trusted advisor. Where the Overlords each pursue their own agendas, Malakar's loyalty is to me alone. He has stood by my side through the War in Heaven, through countless battles and political maneuvers. If there is any being in this galaxy I trust implicitly, it is him.

As my mind wanders through these thoughts, I become aware once again of the weight upon my brow. The headdress, my trophy from the Nightbringer, seems to pulse with an energy of its own. Most Necrons remember little of their past lives, their memories eroded by the long sleep and the trauma of biotransference. But I remember. Perhaps it's the headdress, preserving my memories along with my power. Or perhaps it's simply that I refuse to forget, refuse to let go of who and what I once was.

I remember the War in Heaven as if it were yesterday. The searing pain of biotransference, the horror as I watched my people transformed into soulless machines. The battles against the Old Ones, each one more desperate than the last. The moment I realized the C'tan had betrayed us, had fed on our very essence even as they promised us immortality.

And I remember the day I earned my title of Godslayer. The Nightbringer, avatar of death itself, thinking it could use me as its pawn. I remember the battle, how I turned its own powers against it, shattered its necrodermis shell and bound a fragment of its essence into this very headdress. The other C'tan learned to fear me that day. The Deceiver tried to turn me against my own people, whispering promises of godhood in my ear. I fed it its own lies, turning its schemes back upon itself.

These memories, these experiences, they shape who I am. They remind me of why I fight, why I led my dynasty into the great sleep, and why I now wage this War of Reclamation.

The galaxy has changed much in our absence. New races have risen, old enemies have evolved or fallen. This Imperium of Man... they intrigue me. So young, barely out of their cradle in cosmic terms, and yet they've built an empire that spans the galaxy. Their so-called Emperor, their genetically engineered Primarchs - they remind me in some ways of the Old Ones at the height of their power.

Part of me admires their tenacity, their drive. Another part sees them as upstart children, playing with forces they can't possibly understand. But mostly, I see opportunity. The Imperium, in its blind expansion, its "Great Crusade", will inevitably come into conflict with us. When it does, I'll be ready.

I have plans within plans, strategies that will unfold over millennia. The Rangdan and Slaugth are but the first step. By crushing them, we announce our return to the galactic stage. We remind the younger races that there are ancient powers stirring, powers they would do well to fear.

But fear alone is not enough. No, I've learned from the mistakes of the past. Ruling through fear and force alone leads only to rebellion and resentment. Instead, I envisage a future where the lesser races serve us willingly, seeing the Necrons not as conquerors but as protectors, as gods.

It will take time, of course. Centuries, millennia perhaps. But time is the one resource we Necrons have in abundance. Slowly, carefully, we will reshape the beliefs of a hundred worlds, a thousand. We will be the shadowy protectors, the mysterious benefactors. And when the time is right, when the galaxy cries out for salvation from some manufactured threat, we will reveal ourselves as their saviors.

And my Overlords? They too have their roles, though they may not realize it. Nefertari's ambition, Amenhotep's fury, Nephthys' subtlety, Imhotep's innovation, Sekhet's strategies - all are tools to be used in the forging of this new order.

As for myself... I am the Phaeron, the Godslayer. I've faced the C'tan and emerged victorious. I've outlived empires and seen the birth and death of stars. This new galaxy, with all its challenges and opportunities, is but the latest game board upon which I play.

The displays before me flicker, showing new tactical data. The fleet approaches its target, the Rangdan and Slaugth blissfully unaware of the doom that approaches. Soon, the battle will begin. Soon, the galaxy will remember why the Necrons were once the undisputed masters of creation.

I allow myself a cold smile. Let the games begin.

A/N: The Rangdan and the Slaught really so obscure records, I even have to dive into the Reddit pages, I hope ya'll like how I try to be as close to Lore as possible.